A Little Rain Never Hurt
by Curiosity Killed the Becks
Summary: Marianne decides to take a stroll in the rain, looking for Willoughby's home while drowning in her misery. Colonel Brandon comes after her. Based on the movie adaptation of Sense and Sensibility. One-shot.


_I absolutely adore the movie adaptation of _Sense and Sensibility,_ but I've never had the opportunity to read the novel. So, with nothing better to be doing on my weekend, I thought I'd give Jane Austin fanfiction a crack. I hope you enjoy it! _

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><p>Marianne had said that it would, most definitely, not rain. However, Colonel Brandon and everyone else in the party knew otherwise. Eleanor and he knew of the last encounter that Miss Dashwood had endured while walking in a rainstorm, and while it had not been fatal in the least, it was not one that needed be repeated. Mrs. Palmer paid no mind to forebodingly dark clouds on the horizon, perhaps too absorbed with pressing her screaming son upon her unfortunate husband, and agreed rather absentmindedly to Marianne's request for a stroll in the garden. Mr. Palmer watched her with a look of longing, as if he too wished that he could escape the suffocating atmosphere of his wife and child. However, he allowed himself to show concern as the young lady swept past him, as he had come to care for both of the Dashwood girls. They were far easier to bear than the woman that he had chosen as a wife. Eleanor watched with apprehension as Marianne quitted the room, but upon meeting her sister's steely glance of determination, she immediately busied her hands with setting her skirt straight. It had become creased while squashed inside of the carriage on the journey back from London. The Colonel, having stowed himself away in the window seat, watched Eleanor with a judging eye as he had been somewhat ruffled by Marianne's sudden desire to place herself in solitude.<p>

As the door swung firmly shut behind her, Marianne strode past the greenhouse, ignoring the exotic plants that would have otherwise attracted her attention. The glass enclosure that ensured the plant's survival through winter was far too warm; and she had no doubt that in there, she would have been unable to breathe. Thunder rolled across the horizon, and not at all fazed by the noise, Marianne gripped her skirts in a white-knuckled fist, and picked up her pace. The gravel cut through her slippers painfully, but she refrained from wincing. Perhaps they were not the best sort of shoes that one would wear for a walk along the grounds, but she had not the time to change them. Even if she had paused in her endeavor to be alone, her pride would not have allowed to her ask to borrow anyone's shoes. Eleanor wore slippers like her own, and the only shoes sturdy enough for a walk through the grounds would have been a pair of proper boots.

There would only be Mr. Palmer, and the Colonel to ask from, and the former had been far too kind to her to allow for her to ask for anything else. The latter, however, was quite smitten with her. Any favors asked from him might lead him to believe there was something where there was, in fact, nothing. She did not wish to bestow upon him the anguish or the pain that Willoughby had brought her. As it was, Marianne was unsure that she could affect the Colonel in such a way that Willoughby had done her: the dashing Mr. Willoughby had confided in her on multiple occasions of his enduring faith in the heart, and marrying for love. And then, hardly a month later, he had gone off and attached himself to another woman, all for money. What happiness extra coin could bring was dull in comparison to the burning, bright, eternal happiness that of passionate love could, and she would have believed him of all people to be aware of that. He had certainly lead _her_ to believe that was what he truly thought, and by taking a lock of her hair, she was sure that it was she that he meant. Naïve by no means, no matter how much Eleanor was persuaded of it, Marianne had been thoroughly convinced in the sincerity of his actions. Words were not necessarily required in the communication between a man and a woman, no matter what Eleanor believed to be true.

But, there was no denying that she had been wrong. The news that Colonel Brandon had brought of his true character had helped, perhaps a little. Willoughby had loved her, at least, for a time; but it had not been enough. It was all too clear that he did not love her as Marianne loved him. For fifty-thousand pounds a year, Willoughby was willing to throw away her attentions and affections without a second thought, whereas Marianne would not have denied him for any amount of money in the country – no, the world. And how easy it had been for him to forget her, and to fly into the arms of another woman, all for the contents of her purse. Did he still love her? It was a plausible thought, as he had been planning on asking her hand in marriage the morning that he had left for London. However, the love that she so wished for had eluded her – no matter how much he claimed to be attracted to her.

It was not her fault that she did not have a dowry to speak of, nor was it her fault that her half-brother had left them penniless. Marianne knew that although marrying for money would be prudent for a young woman in a position such as hers, that she would be marrying for love. Let Eleanor marry for the money her family so desperately needed; she did not understand love in the way that Marianne did. Love was by no means mere affection, nor was it simply adoration. Love was burning, wild, and uncontainable. She felt for Willoughby so strongly that it was painful to be away from him, and he had not only broken her heart by denying her: he had ripped it from her chest, and then thrown the shredded pieces away like ashes on the wind. And yet, she still was quite sure that she loved him entirely. She loved him no matter what horrid things he had done in the past, and was fully willing to forgive him of any actions that he had taken. She loved him although he was now penniless and homeless. And although he was currently engaged to another woman, Marianne was still fully and entirely in faithful to John Willoughby.

She stood paused at the gardens, solemnly looking over the untamed hills before her. The trees swayed wildly as the wind whipped through them, their leaves very nearly ripped from their boughs as the driving gale tore through the grounds. She sighed sharply, the cold air burning her lungs. In the safe confines of the gardens she was trapped; like a wild bird hopelessly beating its wings against the confines of a guiled cage. Out there, in the beginnings of what would be a violent rainstorm, she would be free. Glancing over the shoulder surreptitiously, as if making sure she was truly alone, Marianne saw nothing than the otherwise empty garden she had left behind. With a half-smile for her own encouragement, she allowed herself to take a small token of enjoyment in her freedom, but no sooner than she pressed past the threshold of the garden did the smile disappear from her rounded face. Mrs. Palmer had said only a few days ago that Willoughby lived mere miles from her estate. With hollow determination, with a desire to do nothing more than ease the sharp ache hidden away in her chest, she pulled up her thick skirts, and began stalking off in the general direction of the estate that he had been uprooted from.

After a quarter of an hour, fat drops of icy rain began falling from the dark clouds overheard. At first, it was easy to ignore the chilling water, and her concentration was entirely focused upon not slipping in the mud. When she made her return, she did not wish to look entirely distressed, as that would only prove Eleanor correct. There was no joy in living with Eleanor looming darkly over her, and returning with anything but a smile would earn her nothing but a personal guardian for the next few weeks. Her demeanor became even dimmer at the very thought of her sister pressing on her, and she became determined to return fully happy. There was no point in trying to rid herself of the unbearable weight pressing down upon her if it would only place her in a worse predicament. While Marianne knew that Eleanor meant entirely well, her efforts were not appreciated in any way. She simply did not understand what this was, or how it felt. While her disappointment with Mr. Ferras was sad, and disheartening, it was difficult to feel sympathy for her elder sister. She had not even been willing to try and take what was rightfully hers! Eleanor, who most definitely had captured Edward's love, was fully willing to allow Lucy Steele to tread upon her heart. She thought that it was noble that Edward was going to carry on with Miss Steele as he had promised half a decade ago! There was no nobility in losing him to a simpering twit of a girl, nor was she being very faithful to her heart. Again, Eleanor was being far too logical for her own good, and Marianne thought that she could not bear to watch it. Willoughby had abandoned her for another woman's purse: there was nothing to be done about that. However, watching her sister stand aside, watching her let Edward slip through her grasp, was insufferable. If only she allowed herself to speak to Edward, she could change his mind. If he truly did love Eleanor, as Marianne supposed that Eleanor loved him, then he would leave Lucy immediately, and never think of her again.

Eleanor was subjecting herself to pain (while it was pale in comparison to her own pain, it was damage all the same) and therefore, it was nigh impossible to feel badly for her. No, Marianne could not take sympathy in her sister's ignorance, as there was nothing more infuriating than watching Eleanor give away her chance at Mr. Ferras, who, without a doubt, loved her. It was even more upsetting that Eleanor tried to pretend that she was in as much hurt as Marianne herself was. She was doing this to herself, and it was wrong of her to think that Edward had broken her heart, when truly; she was breaking his by not running to him.

With a great sniff, Marianne cleared away the dripping from her nose with a wipe of her sleeve, and continued trudging up the hill. By now, her tears were intermingling with the frozen rain, and the wind that whipped so cruelly through the air. Her skirts were now soaked entirely through, and escaped tendrils of hair were plastered to her pale face. Finally, after nearly half of an hour, she had come upon the place where Willoughby had once resided. She gazed upon the great estate with wide, glassy eyes, and tears began to fall freely. Now in sight of his estate, her heart swelled with anguish, and with each feeble beat, she imagined herself closer and closer to death of a broken heart. She suddenly wished that she could depart of this world, as it would leave her free of the unimaginable pain that _he_ had brought her. And yet, she knew that she could never escape this: something that was this damaging to her soul would stay with her forever. There would be no respite from this pain, and she knew that it would stay with her for the rest of her life. At least, Miss Dashwood imagined that it would last forever. Mr. Willoughby was undeniably the one suitable for her and her only match upon this earth. There was not a way to subdue her pain, as only he would be able drive it away. Only sight Willoughby would heal the hole that he had torn through her heart.

"Oh, Willoughby!" She cried miserably, her voice lost within the howling gale of the wind. Marianne, feeling utter defeat for the first time in her life, crumpled to her knees and began to sob in earnest. He had been her match, her mate, so utterly perfect for her disposition, that it seemed impossible that reality had taken place. She had been so sure that he had loved her, loved her enough to keep her as his wife: no matter the fact that she had been left penniless. Her charming, wild, passionate soulmate had been inclined to marry for money though, and she was not good enough for him. Both Eleanor and her mother were thoroughly convinced that she would never be able to marry, simply because she was far too wild and daring. And yet, he had loved her. She had been so sure in him, that she had not even considered the possibility that their relationship would not end in marriage. But it _hadn't._ Unable to keep from crying, and unable to quiet herself, Marianne crumpled over onto her side, and allowed the driving rain to pelt her into dark unconsciousness, not caring if she fell ill. Nothing mattered anymore, as she was thoroughly convinced that without Willoughby, she was nothing.

However, despite her own conclusion of self-worth, there were plenty of people who believed her to be charming, delightful, and did not approve of her catching ill. Eleanor had slipped away from the screaming infant with a polite declination to hold him, and had joined a highly concerned Colonel Brandon on the widow seat. She had been gone mere moments, and already, Marianne had disappeared from sight. Glancing askance at Brandon, she saw that he was no more approving of this than she was. His dark eyes were full of concern. Eleanor pressed the palm of her hand against her already smoothed skirt in an attempt to calm her anxious nerves, but it was in vain. The last time Marianne had been caught out in a rainstorm, she had been carried home by a complete stranger with a sprained ankle. Except this time, she had undoubtedly traveled over five miles away, and in this particular situation, it was unlikely that there would be a handsome stranger to happen upon her. Colonel Brandon coughed pointedly, his eyes unblinking as they stared after the disappeared Marianne.

"I think," He said this softly enough for Mr. and Mrs. Palmer not to hear him, yet of enough volume for Eleanor to catch his words. As he spoke, she looked at him attentively, biting her lip in insecurity. "I think that it would be wise to keep her out of the rain. I am going to fetch her. Would that be agreeable with you, Miss Dashwood?" Already, rain began trailing down the glass pane of the window, and Eleanor became increasingly worried for the welfare of her sister.

"Yes," She said in a hushed whisper, somehow being heard over the screaming cries of the infant, "I would prefer it that way, Colonel." He nodded silently, and then stood from the window seat. He swept from the room in a flurry of tailcoat and cloak, and only Mrs. Palmer did not look after him. She was continuing to bounce the infant on her lap, speaking nonsensically nearly as loudly as her son was screaming. Either her efforts to calm the child either did not have _enough_ effort behind them, or she was simply raising an exceedingly spoilt child. Mr. Palmer regarded his wife with a critical eye, and then glanced over at Eleanor. Neither of them said anything, and the Miss Dashwood returned her attention to the window. Below on the grounds, she could see that the Colonel was running off towards the direction of the estate that Willoughby had been estranged from: no doubt, Marianne had gone there. Eleanor sighed, as she knew that this would be far from the last time that Marianne gave into dramatics.

Yet, Marianne's dramatics were far from Brandon's mind. As he ran, the watery earth splattered beneath his feet, marring his clothing with the thick mud that the rain was producing. The grass, which had only been able to take hold to the earth with thin roots due to the severity of the weather of late, was ripping up from the ground where he tread, leaving gaping holes in the grounds. He ignored this as he ran, his mind entirely focused upon Marianne. The mere thought of her brought her face popping up in his mind's eye, and in this mental picture, she looked utterly distraught. This only helped force him onwards, and nearly two miles had passed before he had to allow himself a respite. He slowed his pace to a light jog, in disregard of both the rain and the mud now decorating his clothing. The weather was only taking a turn for the worst, and he feared that it would take too long to find Marianne. It would be a horrid thing if she fell ill because of this escapade in the rain. The stupid girl had insisted that it was not going to rain even though the cloud cover and the wind was enough evidence to make anyone wary of an unpleasant turn in the weather. He struggled to breathe as he walked, the icy air burning down his throat. It was terribly unpleasant, the wind howling in his ears, the rain pelting down and soaking him, but his concern for Marianne outstripped any concern that he had for himself.

After what felt like few precious seconds, the Colonel set off at a run again, making sure that he was still heading in the direction of the estate. The trees were becoming scarce as he traveled further and further into the grounds, and with every footfall, it felt that the land was becoming more and more like that of the wild moors in the north. That was only a small reassurance, as it would be far easier to find Marianne with less vegetation in the surrounding area. However, as he left the planted trees, the land became less and less developed; the hills were difficult to run up, and it was near impossible to avoid a nasty slip down the descent of the slippery, muddy, hills. Another mile passed before he paused again, and he did not allow himself nearly as long a break before setting off at a trot again. Every moment that he spent walking was another moment that Marianne stood alone and frigid in the rain. While it was disheartening that she was venturing out here to see the once-home of the suitor that she had been so enthralled with, he could not help but take a sort of twisted pleasure in the fact that Willoughby had done just as he had predicted: abandoned her just as he had abandoned Eliza. That was not to say that Brandon was exactly thrilled that Marianne had gotten her heart broken, on the contrary, upon hearing that Willoughby had turned his nose up at Marianne, it had been his dearest wish to throttle the man himself – gentleman or not.

It was infuriating that a man who found himself so easily attached to someone like Marianne would dare trade her in for another. In Brandon's nearly loveless life, it had taken him years to earn the love of Elizabeth Williams, and now, all he had left of her was a daughter that had gone wayward. He was by no means attractive, but Brandon had been told that he was charming in his own way. Quiet, and rather serious, he did not blame Marianne for choosing the wild and eccentric Willoughby over him. He regretted it though, and in his endeavors to insure that Marianne remained happy, he had only succeeded in bringing her more grief than was necessary. Perhaps, if he had revealed to her that Willoughby was truly a scoundrel hiding behind a pretty face in the beginning, then she would not have been running about in the rain. Neither would he be chasing her down, but he found that he did not mind that as he thought he would have. Marianne, poor girl, while headstrong, was heartbroken. She deserved better than Willoughby, and certainly, better than himself. But at the moment, she was only willing to accept the former, and he could only offer her the latter.

With grim determination, Colonel Brandon continued running, and it was not too terribly long before he happened upon the estate where Marianne was sure to be. He stood on the hilltop, his breath gone, his cloak whipping violently around him, the rain beating down on him from every possible angle, and yet, he did not see Marianne. In desperation, he turned right around, trying to use the height that the hilltop provided him with to his advantage. Despite his best efforts, it seemed that she was not there.

"Marianne!" He called hoarsely, willing his voice to be heard over the screaming wind. He locked his knees as he began moving down the hill, ignoring his concern for the steepness of it. After nearly tumbling down half the hill, he was pleasantly surprised to see that the hill leveled out again nicely; however, the pleasant feeling was immediately eclipsed by concern. There was Marianne, crumpled into a small ball of defeat. He sped towards her, and jerked himself to a halt as he reached her. He knelt down, and shook her shoulders. "Marianne?" he asked quietly, and yet, the girl did not open her eyes. She was still breathing: he made sure of that. The rain continued to pelt down on them, and the longer that she remained out here, the more likely she was to fall ill. Unable to wait for her permission, Brandon gently scooped her up, and with her head leaning on his chest, he began the long journey back.

He could not run, not as burdened as he was, but he was able to keep up a fairly quick pace. He moved thoughtlessly for what seemed to be ages: the cold, piercing rain seemed to become more and more relentless with each passing moment. However, once they had passed the halfway mark, Marianne began to stir. She rolled ever so slightly in his arms, and her bright eyes opened. She only looked up at him for a moment, and then she twisted herself into his chest. Brandon struggled to keep a smile from touching his features – while he would have gone after her regardless of her reaction, this some how made it all the more worthwhile.

"I knew you'd come for me," she murmured into his coat. Brandon's breathing momentarily paused, and he dared to think that she had merely been trying to lure him out here. He stopped walking, and was only able to look down at the young lady he was carrying.

"I knew you'd come for me, Willoughby."

9


End file.
